


Other Men's Wars

by Herbrarian



Series: New Orders [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Backstory, Blood and Violence, Brothels, Callier Massacre, Character Study, Explicit Sexual Content, Gen, Orlais, Plotting, Rough Oral Sex, The Game, Val Royeaux, patronage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-03 13:29:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6612421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herbrarian/pseuds/Herbrarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Previously:  Thom Rainier has done well, securing a captain’s commission in the Orlesian army. But his ambition continues to outstrip his reality.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Thom Rainier wipes his mouth. The ale is, frankly, piss water and will in no way be enough to get him drunk.

But he is not here to get drunk. He is here to meet his patron. The man had been absent lately; business with the Duke kept Ser Robert more and more dividing his time between the capital and the de Ghislain estates in the North. It has been close to two months since Thom last saw Chapuis in the capital.

He stands at the bar. The deep blue of his captain’s jacket glows in the candlelight. He wears knee pants, his stocking calves dressed in garters. Always sensitive to the current fashion, Thom fares well in Orlesian society, delighting men and women alike with his dark, good looks. His left leg is extended slightly, the knee bent to best show off his calf. A woman across the room watches him and he eyes her back, his gaze smoldering. She does not wear a mask, so she is likely not nobility or—if she is—she is slumming it tonight and would be receptive to the advances from an Orlesian captain.

The lady snaps her fan open and conceals her mouth and nose. The crinkle around her eyes, however, tells him she smiles behind the opulent linen and bamboo construction. His gaze shifts to her cleavage and the fichu surrounding her neckline. Nobility then, he decides, as he sees the tiny insignia of her family crest worked into the lace tatting. Her décolletage heaves appreciatively at his regard and the waist bow he gives her.

Ser Robert is late; Thom has nursed this ale for the last hour. He will be damned if it will be a wasted evening. He prepares to order a glass of claret for the lady with the last of his week’s pay. He feels confident that the memory of the swell of her hip from later tonight will distract him in the days to come from his financial destitution; or, at least, until next payday. He needs to feel the surety of captivating a woman who wants him with all her lust. Once he’s pressed into her slick warmth his anger at having to wait on another will ebb and he will feel in command again.

He turns to call to the barkeep to order a crystal goblet and almost smacks a crooked finger into the chest of his patron.

Immediately, Thom stands to attention and bows, his sword arm swept behind to the base of his back, the other arm sweeping out and away to his side. It is a courtly bow of submission to a superior as it leaves his chest open and his sword far from a quick draw.

“Ser Chapuis, it is a pleasure to see you this evening,” Thom speaks in passable Orlesian.

He has always done well with the language, but his accent is still Marcher after all this time, and most nobles flinch delicately when he speaks. Chevalier Robert Chapuis, thankfully, is not one of these.

Ser Robert Chapuis is a short man—even for an Orlesian—and is almost three hands shorter than Thom. As with most short men that Thom has ever met Ser Robert fidgets under the harsh stare of others. That discomfort over the opinion of other men led Ser Robert to train hard as a chevalier and while the man’s delicate rapier would never keep him alive on a battlefield, it serves him very well on the dueling ground and in the occasional back alley brawl. Just the previous month he challenged a Nevarran in attendance at Court and sent his opponent home in a box to his widow. His protection under the patronage of Gaspard de Chalons—Grand Duke of Orlais, Conqueror at Larécolte, and grandson of Emperor Judicael I—keeps Ser Robert from the harsher side of the Empire’s laws restricting dueling.

“Thom,” Chapuis lays a gold empress down on the bar, “buy us each a whiskey and bring it over.” Ser Robert turns and heads toward a private table.

Thom nods his head in a brisk acknowledgement, his hand on the coin before Ser Robert is more than three steps away. Thom straightens, bringing himself to his full height, raps on the counter with the coin making a dull, strong thonk. He looks into the eyes of the barkeep who coalesced out of the background when Ser Robert appeared. Thom holds up his thumb and forefinger to indicate his need and says, “Verchiels,” asking for what he knows to be Chapuis’ preferred—expensive—whiskey.

The barkeep moves efficiently, pouring the doubles and setting them on the bar with little fuss. With the change in his pocket, Thom picks up the glasses and moves to Chapuis’ table. He passes near the lady with the fan; she perks at his approach. But he gestures with a glance and a head tilt to his patron, and affects a hopeless shrug, his eyes smoldering as he returns them to her décolletage. The ruse has its desired effect and her face transforms from a scowl to a pout and sigh, her breasts heaving. She throws him a kiss and a coquettish smile; a conquest saved for another time.

He settles onto the plush bench across from Ser Robert. It puts Thom’s back to the room, but he knows the chevalier will watch the café diligently. Thom has become skilled at reading the man’s eyes, which never seem to stop moving as if he is a small animal constantly searching for those who prey upon him. Thom will know the moment danger should approach if it were to deign to show its face here in one of Val Royeaux’s most fashionable cafés. He should be able to enjoy his whiskey in peace.

Ser Robert barely acknowledges Thom, grabs the glass set in front of him, and takes a large pull. Thom takes a sip of his own. It is grassy and sweet with a sharp, harsh after burn which keeps it from being syrupy. Heat seeps pleasantly into his nose. Thom sits and waits. It does not profit to rush Ser Robert.

“Tell me about your family, Thom,” Ser Robert asks.

“Ahh,” Thom is a little taken aback with the request. He recovers quickly. “My younger sister Liddy died when I was little; the blood cough. There weren’t any others at home and I pretty much raised myself after she passed. My parents are gone, dead before I left home. Not much more to tell.”

“But you won the Grand Tourney with Ser Geoffroy de Bordelon; you come from Orlais.”

It is a statement, not a question. Thom is wary. Ser Robert knows quite well he is not Orlesian; anyone listening to Thom’s accent knows he is not Orlesian. Thom stiffens. “Markham, Ser, the other side of the Vimmark.”

“The Vimmark,” Chapuis mimics his pronunciation, over-emphasizing the Free Marcher pronunciation of the long i. Ser Robert swirls his whiskey in his tumbler, says, “Why are you in Orlais?”

Thom quickly calculates. Ser Robert is deviating wildly from the Game. The man must be out of time, which means he is desperate. Chapuis has been his patron for five years, securing Thom’s rank and commission. Thom has seen him in various stages of calm and bluster, but Thom has not once seen the man desperate.

_Lie or Truth?_

“The money was decent and the women adventurous,” he replies with a leer in his smile.

_Good. The truth and obfuscation: an answer worthy of the Empress herself._

“What do you feel about the Empress?” Ser Robert brings Thom quickly back to the matter at hand with a queer echo of his own thought. “You serve in the Army; do you have any great affection for Celene?”

Chapuis sips from his glass, his eyes never leaving Thom’s face. He is unsure what Chapuis’ goal could be here or if the man has fallen out with the Grand Duke. Thom is indifferent to the machinations amongst the nobility. Chapuis’ support is all that matters; whomever the chevalier throws in with will be Thom’s allegiance, too.

Thom plops his words carefully into the silence:  “I am in Orlais to partake in its might as the center of the civilized world. I am in favor of whoever _allows_ me to live a good life.”

The chevalier seems to ease; perhaps sensing Thom’s desire to follow his preference, no matter who that is. Ser Robert throws back a large gulp of his whiskey. He grimaces slightly from the burn of it and begins to speak:

“You have heard of the Tome of Koshun?”

“That book they fought over in Kirkwall? With the Qunari? Yes.”

“It was to be returned from Orlais to the Arishok, yes? But what is not known is that it had not set in the University the whole time as most thought, but in Prince Reynaud’s and the Valmont family’s private collection. Apparently that is why Celene became such a studious scholar. She used her presence as leverage for she wished the University, and those bungling Chantry fools, to take the full ire of the Qunari. She paid handsomely for the privilege, or I should say the exchequer does, but she did not appreciate how bungling those _academics_ were and left them on their own to form a delegation for its delivery.

“When it was stolen by that Rivani pirate Celene was mystified; did not know what to do. My Lord was prevailed upon by her most influential ministers—for the good of the realm and the Valmont name—to broker an agreement with the Arishok. But the Arishok would not be moved; he intended on landing at Val Chevin and laying siege until the Tome was delivered to him. My Lord used his not inconsiderable connections to track down the pirate. He turned over her location and the associates who aided her to the Arishok. Thus the Arishok and the Qunari landed at Kirkwall, and Val Chevin and the Orlesian coast were saved from a disastrous war.

“Now that Kirkwall has rid itself of the Arishok and the Arishok is disavowed by the Qun, Celene scrambles to discover the _gaatlok_ recipe in order to cement her position as a military leader in Southern Thedas. She once again is nervous about Gaspard. He is more fit to rule than she ever could hope to be and if his involvement in diverting the Arishok is known, he will again outshine her in the hearts of the people. So, she pushes Lord Vincent Callier to track down my Lord’s Charta contacts he used to seek out the Tome. Callier will expose the trail of Gaspard’s Charta favors for the Tome but manipulate it so it directs instead to _gaatlok_ ; he will make it appear that it is not the Empress, but the Grand Duke, who associates with Tal-Vashoth in the Charta to secure the recipe. With this little subterfuge it will look as if my Lord is fooling the Qunari and betraying the Empress to garner political and military advantage for himself.”

“What will happen if Callier succeeds?” Thom asks quietly, although he is sure of the answer.

“My Lord would be a pariah at best. But likely she would try to brand him a traitor:  sentence him; watch the execution herself; and hold a ball afterward.”

Chapuis’ tone is rich with his derision for the Empress. He tosses back the rest of his whiskey, barely allowing the liquor to touch his tongue before he has swallowed it down. The man sits sullenly, allowing Thom to take in his meaning.

If Duke Gaspard was to be disgraced before the court, any and all under his protection would fall under suspicion. Chapuis would be lucky to escape being an outcast, and the other man could quickly find himself the recipient of some subtle poison if he had the audacity to remain in polite society. Thom would likely discover his commission revoked, given over to another more politically important candidate. Thom originally came to Orlais with his own fame from the Grand Tourney and he worked hard to earn his reputation with a sword and as a captain. It is doubtful, though, that he will recover as a career soldier in Orlais if Chapuis’ guiding hand dries up.

Despite the stakes Thom needs to tread carefully. He will do what is needed to help to secure the other man’s position. But Thom needs the request to come from the other man’s lips.

“What will the Grand Duke do?” Thom asks, making his voice husky with concern to strike the right tone.

With no warning, Chapuis relaxes and shifts, sitting back. His posture proclaims that he discusses nothing of any more consequence than the clouds in the sky, the water in the sea. “Who’s to say, Thom? Who’s to say?” Chapuis sighs. “It is worrisome news that our faithful, loyal patron would be misused so by a Peer. I will get more whiskey for myself, you?” And with that Chapuis rises, gesturing to Thom’s glass, the man’s generosity all the more conspicuous for the nonchalant air he strives to affect.

Thom demurs gracefully, making a show of enjoying his own near full tumbler. He has ceased drinking, merely passing the glass to his mouth to wet his lips. The last thing he needs is a haze of alcohol through which to decipher Chapuis’ language.

Chapuis returns to the table and reclaims his seat. He sips from his now full tumbler—it is another double—and says casually, “It is a disgrace that such an excellent man be misused in such a way, but what is to be done?” Chapuis sips; resumes talking: “If we could find a way to protect the Grand Duke, I know we both would seize it.” Chapuis pauses, lets the silence fill the moment. Thom quickly, but noncommittally, murmurs his assent.

Chapuis continues on: “It is that damned Callier! If he could but be stopped, I believe Celene’s entire purpose would fall away. I think she is badly advised,” Chapuis adds conspiratorially.

“Perhaps he could be persuaded …” Thom trails off with the question, open to the table.

“No. I believe the man is resolute in his misguided intentions; his animosity is so great for my Lord. It was rumored that Callier once coveted the Lady de Ghislain for his own. It is an old feud between these two. I think nothing would deter Callier from his purpose but death.”

Chapuis looks directly at Thom, the man’s eyes holding Thom’s for uncomfortable moments. Thom feels as if the entire café holds its breath. The grate near them does little to dry the damp air of the evening. Thom begins to sweat in his officer’s coat, but he knows his face has paled. Ser Robert is suggesting … what? That he—an outsider in Orlais whose position rests on the whim of nobles—become an agent in the Game?

“What would you have of me, Ser?” Thom asks softly into the quiet of the emptying café. “I am yours to direct.”

Ser Robert considers for a moment and then rushes in.

“Lord Callier will be travelling to Halamshiral from his estates near the Deauvin Flats at the Western edge of the Dales. His entourage will set off in two weeks’ time. Their path will take them through a mountainous area, the proving ground of a not-inconsiderable number of bandits and highwaymen. As such, he will have a well-seasoned squad with him of his house guard, as he always does when he transfers his household to the palace for the Season.”

“His household?” Thom is startled, not wanting to understand Chapuis’ implication.

“Yes.”

“Surely, Ser, it would be best to take him on his own or with only a few retainers, so many …” Thom trails off.

“Would require your full complement of men, I agree,” Chapuis states as if Thom has suggested this thing and Chapuis merely comments upon the tactical feasibility, the plausibility of the plan.

Thom freezes in place. Moving a household will mean guards, servants, retainers, …

_Children._

His gut lurches at the thought. He’s never killed a child before.

“This would fall outside of your commission, of course,” Ser Robert speaks softly, as if whispering encouragement to a liaison, “so you would be paid. There are twelve hundred empresses put aside to do with as you see fit to prepare and take as your reward, in addition to whatever else you may pillage from the carts.”

Thom’s head snaps up at the amount and he looks into Chapuis’ face. Ser Robert is smiling at him for the other man knows he has got him, secured him on Thom’s own ambition. This had been Ser Robert’s assurance that he would walk out of the café tonight with an agent and a solution for the Grand Duke.

Before he can second guess, think it through, Thom snaps back his remaining whiskey and says throatily as the alcohol burns down his gullet: “My sword, as always, is yours. At your pleasure, Ser.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW  
> Please note warning and tags. Both sexual content and violence are intertwined with the plot and are explicit.

He places the empress on the table in exchange for his cup and other wares. He sips the wine and looks over the rim at the Madame who brought the cup and the promise of her company. She tucks the coin away in abundant cleavage. He is not one of her regulars, but she saw the purse he pulled the empress coin from and she leans into him, her elbows on the table, her décolletage pushing into the air between them.

He knows that another large, gold coin will buy him all the brandy he can stomach tonight and that a third will secure the attention of this lovely lady and perhaps a bit more. He pushes three coins across the table and says to her, “Mayhap you can find a friend and a bottle for our evening.”

The courtesan—business woman that she is—smiles graciously, neither too greedy nor too warmly. She stands and crosses around the table to him, quietly making the coins disappear into the folds of her skirts. She tugs gently on his knee and his leg warms as she sits on his thigh. Her copious skirts fall to the floor, surrounding and enveloping his leg, trapping the warmth of his body.

_She dips down to the ground, her hand tugging on a still shoulder, pulling the man’s face around to see hers. She calls his name, tears streaking down her cheeks, tenderly wipes his cheek and moves the hair out of his eyes. She bends forward to kiss him, oblivious to the folds of her skirt in the dirt and blood, Callier’s lifeblood pooling under her, the raw silk wicking it up to her hips and her waist._

The Madame gestures, something he senses but doesn’t see. The barkeep brings over two bottles and a tumbler. She smiles directly at Thom and he refocuses; she gestures for him to choose. He selects the brandy from Trevis and she smiles indulgently as he throws back the remainder of the wine in his goblet. She leans away, toward the bottle the barkeep leaves behind, uncorks it, and pours a generous dram into the tumbler. Thom admires the spread of her hips, rubs his hand over the ample curve of her rump which lies below the bustle of her skirt.

She straightens, offers him the tumbler, and takes his wine cup from him. He noses the brandy, the burnt caramel makes his mouth water and his cock twitches at the rich smell.

Madame senses the movement and she smiles at him, one arm draped on his shoulder so that her hand rests along the back of his neck, lightly playing with the hairs on his head. The other hand loosely trails up the inside of his thigh. As he sniffs deeply of the sugary, medicinal aroma of the brandy, her fingers continue to trace a pathway up to his crotch. His eyes droop in relaxation and contentment.

_The flames are in front of me. They lick greedily at the lacquered wood of the carriage. The horses rear and the carriage shakes. Someone, Mornay, neglected to unharness the horses, the team is crying in panic. Ranulf and Tomas dive in and around the beasts, their long swords hacking at the leather straps, trying to free the shrieking horses from the wheeled combustion, and the sound of the horses is overtaken by the scream of children._

His eyes snap open. He holds his breath, realizes his vision was simply the light playing off the golden shimmer of the brandy in the tumbler, and recognizes the scream is instead a woman laughing at a table across the room. He releases the breath and Madame mistakes his lack of composure. She trails questing fingertips over the firm outward pressure of his trousers as her lips find the hollow below his jaw line. She darts her tongue into the hollows between neck and jaw. The sensation tugs a lascivious grin out of Thom. He doesn’t know where Cyril has gone off tonight with the purse Thom pressed into his hands, but he hopes the man is stinking drunk by now.

_Mornay is my second; it was only sensible to tell him of Callier and the servants and retainers. But I couldn’t tell him about the household. Told myself I’ll make it up to Cyril with a larger purse that will buy plenty of ribbons for 3 year-old Annalise at home with her maman. But the haunted look that he gives me as we ride away from the carnage, there is no purse I can give him to stop seeing that in the dark behind my eyelids._

Madame sits up, her eyes not leaving Thom’s face and she raises the hand that is around his neck and gracefully beckons over several other women to join them. Thom grins that her other hand never leaves his cock and he finally sucks in a sip of the brandy. The alcohol, rather than hitting his tongue as pleasant and sweet, settles harshly. The sharpness of it clears his nose, makes his eyes shimmer, and he focuses on the women Madame gestured over.

One, a red head with fair skin, sits down at the table without further hesitation and crosses her legs so that her calf can reach Thom’s knee. She rubs the calf softly against his knee, pushing the limb forward and back so that her skirts rise ever so invitingly when she brings her knee toward her chest.

A second, a blonde with ringlets and large breasts, comes around to his shoulder on the other side from Madame. She skirts her nails teasingly over the fine, downy hair of his collarbone, her fingertips teasing ever so slightly under the collar of his shirt.

But it is the third woman that catches his eye. Dark, flowing hair and sun-enriched skin, she sways up to the table and simply stares at him. Her eyes smolder into Thom’s gaze and, very intently, she snicks the tip of her tongue lightly across her upper lip, dragging it from one corner of her wide mouth to the other. He can see delicate, pearly white teeth just beyond the fullness of her slightly parted, dusky rose lips. He fails not to imagine what that tongue would feel like stroking his stomach, his thigh, his cock while he entangles his hands into her thick tresses.

Madame perceives his gaze and his mounting tension. She presses into Thom with the hand on his trousers and the other two women melt away. Thom notices the dark haired one wears a dress in the Antivan fashion.

Madame rises to leave the table, takes the bottle, and escorts them to the stairs. It is a busy night and he is far from the only customer here in the large, cavernous room, though he may be one of the earliest to retire.  As they move away from their secluded alcove, the din grows.

_Camp is made and Mornay rides to the village to watch for the Callier entourage to appear. That first night the atmosphere is light among the men. They think we are waiting for Mornay to receive updated orders on the plundering Dalish party they believe we are here to quell. It is all routine so they relax and enjoy their ale rations around the campfire. They rode hard to get this far this quickly and they imbibe that day’s and the previous day’s rations._

_When we pass this spot again on the way back there is no laughing or jostling; just the strike of horses’ hooves on the forest floor._

The noise presses into this temples and he drains the brandy from his glass as he walks. The Antivan whore on his arm steadies him as he wavers on his feet. Across the room the same voice from earlier shrieks again and Thom skitters to a halt. He hears the keen of a loss, shrill. He blinks and shakes his head sharply, as if he can clear the fog in his senses with a physical act.

The Antivan mistakes his motion for drunkenness as she snuggles into his side, her arm going around his waist as she pulls his arm around her shoulders. She leads him up the stairs and her hips undulate into his side as she negotiates the treads. They reach the landing and Madame’s room without further pause and the door shuts out the noise from below.

Despite the cheery fire in the grate the room is cool after the press of bodies downstairs. Madame refills his tumbler and gestures to his dress uniform. Instinctually, it was the first thing he put on after he cleaned off the sweat and travel dust in the barracks, scrubbed the blood and gore from under his fingernails. Perhaps he wanted to remind himself of what he was; perhaps he just wanted better service in this brothel; he isn’t sure what his reason is anymore. He nods at Madame as he drinks more of the brandy and she begins to untie his sash, his scarf, loosen the buttons of his coat as the Antivan begins to untie his boots.

Madame carefully removes the jacket to a _valet de chambre_ ; her care is exaggerated, as if she cradles a newborn. Thom pulls his feet out of his boots and remains standing. Madame refills his tumbler again, its contents gone, and she dips in to kiss him deeply as she pours. As she deftly breaks away just as the brandy coats half way up the sides of the glass, Thom can feel the Antivan slip behind him. The other woman reaches her arms around his waist to his belt and laces, beginning the work to untie them.

Madame sets down the bottle and begins to loosen her bodice, shrugs out of it as the other woman drops his trousers and smalls to the floor. Without her bodice, Madame is in her corset and skirts, the stays of the corset alternating with panels of lace and panels of silk ribbon that bind the piece together. Madame approaches him and his free hand moves to her waist, his fingers moving to her pale skin beneath the workings of ribbon. The Antivan flows by him, taking the tumbler to a table, and he grips onto Madame’s waist with both hands. She meets his lips in a kiss and pulls his tongue into her mouth so he can taste her. His cock pushes into the folds of her skirt, catching against the fabric as she sways. The friction is like a scratch of pleasure and pain, simultaneously.

_Mornay returns to camp two nights later. The Callier’s arrived that morning to the village. They will start out early the next day, but Cyril is flustered:  there are more than just a few household members, he whispers furtively. I meet the news with a façade of cautious concern. I make a show of mulling over the information, ask a few tactical questions, and then Mornay is off, turning it over in his mind, solving the puzzle of how to resolve the action in our favor._

_Together we review the modified plan with the squad the next day, describing the action we are here to complete. No one questions the number of carriages and carts, why Callier travels with so much. The ways of nobles are unfathomable to these men and so no one asks, no one thinks to question the guidance of a superior officer. They are a disciplined squad. I have poured the best of myself into training and guiding them, and they meet any challenge with aplomb._

He plunges into her mouth with his tongue, his hand behind her neck, pulling Madame into him as if he will chase his thoughts away with her lips, with her breath. Madame’s hands move to the laces at his shirt, widens the opening to slide the linen off his powerful shoulders. She hums appreciatively as she traces fingers and palms over his pectorals, defined from hours spent in the drills of a solider, and his shoulders, firm from heaving a sword into mighty blows.

Softly he feels the Antivan planting kisses on his back, the tongue he admired earlier tracing his shoulders as her hands sneak around to his pelvic bones, pulling his buttocks into her softness. Thom startles with the realization that the other woman is now naked. He stutters in his kiss of Madame, releases her neck, and shifts his hand to lie on her shoulder. He sucks in a breath.

Madame uses his distraction to break away and tugs on the other woman’s hand to pull her around so that she is between Madame and Thom, facing the latter. Madame reaches around her hands and cups the other woman’s round breasts so that they mound tantalizing to the eye. Madame tilts her head and rasps her tongue up the side of the other woman’s throat.

Thom dips his head to the offered décolletage and begins to kiss and suckle them. He winds his fingers back to Madame’s waist again, using her hips to drive the Antivan forward into his cock. The Antivan whimpers, makes a soft, mewling sound that may be pleasure, but Thom mistakes.

_Once all the guards are unhorsed by the archers—mere seconds that stretch on as time slows around him—Mornay gives the command and the squad advances from their cover, cutting down guards taken by surprise. The grooms sitting atop the carriages desperately try to keep their horses from bolting with their load. The last cart is open to the air, its canvas coverings left off for a more pleasant ride in the sunshine of the forest. I see two of my men advance on the house servants, left on their own with the master under attack. Blood begins to pool off of the end of the cart and a young woman’s scream is cut short to a whimper as a sword steals the breath out of her chest. We had agreed: no survivors._

Startled, Thom releases Madame and steps slightly away. Madame uses the break in space to reach down the body of the other woman with one hand, trailing over her abdomen, down the curve of her hip, and then across her thigh to her sex. Madame plunges her fingers between the other woman’s legs and works her, massaging the woman’s breast and tweaking the nipple.

The Antivan’s cry of pleasure snaps Thom’s eyes to Madame’s. With his full attention, Madame releases the other woman’s breast, puts that hand on her shoulder, and pushes her down to the ground to her knees in front of Thom. As she does so, Madame raises her other hand, glistening with the other woman’s juices. Madame brings her finger to her mouth and licks her tongue from her palm to her fingertips.

Thom smolders watching her and moves closer to kiss the musky juice off of Madame’s lips. It is a surprise when he feels his cock taken into an all too willing mouth.

He whines deep in his throat and Madame’s hands fold around his neck and the base of his skull. The motion is almost tender and in his mind’s eye, he unwillingly sees mother and child.

_The second carriage door flies open. Callier comes out, joins his guard captain. Before the door can swing back closed, I can see Lady Callier, two daughters pressed in on each side of her. She hides their faces in her bosom as if she will hide them there from this terror. The door rebounds closed but not before I also see a young boy—no more than 10—look out after Callier, fearful for his father and lord, but not yet worldly enough to be fearful for himself._

The Antivan hums around his cock and she pulls back to lick him. The flat of her tongue rasps up his thigh, her fingers massage his balls, intensifying the tension in them. Madame disengages from his mouth and trails hot, wet kisses to his ear. She suckles at his earlobe and commands in a whisper:

“Your pleasure, my lord.”

At her words, the Antivan shifts his feet slight apart to give him a firmer stance. She wraps her delicate hands around the back of his thighs just under his ass and grips him to hold and balance him. Her strength is surprising. She then moves her mouth—her lips slick—and swallows him in gently and slowly until his head bumps the back of her throat. He flinches with nerves on the impact and then she slowly retreats until her lips are just at the ridge of his tip. She stops:  stops moving, stops sucking, stops licking. Her hands grip his thighs: waiting.

_Callier is a chevalier, but I am his match if not his equal. The distracted state of defending his family is the only advantage I need. As the chaos of fighting approaches the first carriage, Callier frantically searches for an end to the fight with me and the famed chevalier gets sloppy. The cry of a small child from the front carriage snaps Callier’s attention. I feel as much as see the movement and I seize the opportunity, taking a slight gratification in feeling the friction of the man’s leather doublet and muscles against my sword as it sinks into his stomach._

Reeling in his mind, Thom drops his hands to Madame’s hips to steady himself, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on Madame’s brow. Instinctually he pulls on Madame’s hips, pulls them to himself. When he does so, the Antivan’s mouth envelops his cock. Startled, his eyes flow open and Madame smiles at him, leaning back so he can see she straddles the young woman on her knees. The other woman’s head nestles into Madame where her cunt lies, still hidden below all of the skirts; Madame’s hips push into the woman’s dark tresses.

Thom clutches the folds of Madame’s skirts in his fingers and releases her hips slightly. Madame shifts and rolls her hips backward, leading the Antivan with her. The dark eyes look up to stare into Thom’s black ones; the other woman smiles with the corners of lips still around his cock.

With understanding Thom does not hesitate. He begins to roll his hips into the woman’s waiting mouth. As he closes his eyes in the ecstasy of the sensation of wet drawn across his shaft and then the contrast of cool air before he plunges in again, he is aware both women watch him. Madame still holds his head and she guides him to rest his forehead on her décolletage made pronounced by the corset she still wears. His eyes open and he stares down, watching himself move in and out of the Antivan’s mouth. The woman begins a new rhythm: as he retreats, she swirls his head with her tongue, drawing him back into her.

He continues on like this for a while with little thought to either woman. Madame lifts his head and takes her mouth to his with gentle lips tugging on lips, nibbling at him. She unclenches his hands from her dress folds and shifts his open fingers and palms to her buttocks. Then she pushes at them, moving and lifting her ass, pushing the Antivan into him. She commands again between kisses:

“At your pleasure, Ser.”

His own words rebound into him: Chapuis; Mornay; the overwhelming grief of what he has done.

 _Blood begins to pool out of Callier’s mouth. I catch my breath; turn my attention to the next fighting man; find none. Blood is everywhere as the children descend out of the carriage with their nanny. Dimly I hear the woman singing a song to them as she tries to hold them to her skirts, hiding their faces._ Mockingbird, mockingbird, quiet and still _… ._

As the grief breaks inside of him he ruts, grinding the woman’s mouth onto him.

_I remove the Lady, her daughters, and the heir apparent from their carriage. Maker, so many children._

Diverted by his grief his climax is not quick and he pummels into the woman, punishing in his thrusts. He hears the Antivan whimper, the barest of sounds.

_Lady Callier gasps when she sees her husband’s still form on the ground. The boy pales as he follows his mother’s gaze, his fists clench. On instinct, I still the boy with a hand on his shoulder, as if in reassurance, and then slit his throat without hesitation. The boy crumples and I cross to where Lady Callier has knelt over Lord Callier. I plunge my sword into the lady’s back as she crouches over her husband’s body, sobbing and kissing his face. Her skirts are already sodden with her husband’s blood and the rich silk cannot hold hers as it spill out of her body and the blood runs into rivulets and pools on the ground._

His orgasm washes over him.

_The squad looks uncertain; there are only the children and daughters left now. This isn’t what they signed on for but if I tell them to stop now, they’ll know this is a lie. Maker, they are all so young._

His mind retreats into the void away from himself and into the next act.


	3. Chapter 3

Thom wakes hours later to the firelight. Dawn has not yet begun to erupt over the horizon. He looks up blearily. He is naked and a woman with dark hair and brown, round hips lies across him, asleep.

_The Antivan._

He looks up for Madame and sees her sitting by the fire with a teacup and saucer. The smell of the spicy orange blend wafts over to him and he begins to rise, disentangling from the other woman, taking care that she stays asleep.

Madame sits with a silk robe wrapped around her form. The silk falls gently over the rise of breasts, large and full. Without her corset, they no longer shout youthful exuberance and Thom is better able to judge her age in the firelight. He is unsure why such a sensual woman would spend energy denying her years. But he isn’t here for such confidences nor is it his place to ask them from her.

As he approaches he sees the tea things and additional cups. He pours himself some in the fragile porcelain and sits on the rug by the fire next to Madame. Absently she reaches out and strokes the hair on the back of his head.

“Did you sleep well, Captain Rainier?” she asks softly.

Thom pauses in lifting the cup to his mouth. He takes a sip to wet a suddenly dry mouth and responds, “Yes.” He had not spoken his name in their time together. “Did you know me this entire time?”

Madame chuckles, “No, monsieur. But Ser Chapuis came looking for a Captain Rainier just an hour ago and his description sounded much like you. Alas, I could not tell him I was acquainted with one as I have never been introduced to such a man before.”

“Thank you, Madame.” Thom breathes and she gestures with her hand to indicate it is nothing:  a professional courtesy.

Thom is not ready to see Chapuis again; he is not sure he will ever be ready to see Chapuis again. The terror of the last five days sits heavily on him and he is unsure for what he is fit.

“He was insistent, however, that he finds you. I do not think you will avoid him for long, monsieur.” She sips at her tea. “He looked as if he saw danger everywhere, and perhaps there is. He is the Duke’s man, no?” Thom nods. She hums her assent, the sound amplified by the sip she takes from her cup.

“Whose man are you, monsieur?”

She asks it gently, her eyes not leaving the fire. She has seen some of the violence in him in these last few hours, has whipped him lightly when he started to go too far. She helped him to tie up the Antivan and then guided him in ravishing her. She did not look away as he sobbed while he came, and did not gasp in disapproval as he mindlessly started again with the woman, wordlessly blocking out his mind, his memories, his deeds.

“I do not know, Madame, whose man I am.”

“Perhaps it is time to belong to yourself,” she observes.

Thom considers. It sounds … reasonable, soothing, perfect; and yet unattainable. It is what you do and how you do it that matters. He has taken life for politics; for money; for the Game; he has been tested and knows now what he is:  a thug, a brute, a murderer.

He sets down his teacup without another word and crosses to the wash basin. He cleans himself and begins to dress. He doesn’t hear her move so it is a surprise when Madame stands behind him, holding out his captain’s jacket for him to slide into. Thom looks at it for a moment. Then he shakes his head, straps on his sword.

“You will run, then?” she asks.

Thom nods, not looking at her. He digs out another empress and lays it on the table, leaves his forefinger on it, “May she rest tomorrow?” he asks softly, glancing at the woman still asleep in the bed.

Madame eyes him, her gaze turning shrewd, calculating. Abruptly her vision clears and returns to impassivity. She nods her agreement. He removes his finger from the coin and she snaps it up. He bows to her; she nods her head in reciprocation, approaches him, and kisses him formally on the cheek.

“Andraste guide you, Monsieur Rainier.”

Then Thom turns, is out the door, down the stairs. He collects his cloak and his horse and he is riding outside the city, into the dawn, on the Imperial Highway.

**Author's Note:**

> Create Order # 10 & 13  
> For more on this story's creation, checkout [Appendix, Chapter 6](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6612037/chapters/18520750)


End file.
